The Nerve
by Handsome Awkward
Summary: Because of an "assignment" from his therapist House sits in the psychiatric ward contemplating his life on paper. It may not be good, but read and give me a heads up that you like it. :D. rated T for now but i'm not sure how it will end up.
1. Prologue

It was a good life, I'll admit.

It was also heartbreaking.

Hurtful.

Disappointing.

Agonizing.

Horrible.

A mess.

It was everything. It had everything. Passion. Love. Miracles. Highs and lows. Ups and downs.

Everything.

Why was it so hard to end it then?

If someone hates themselves…why is it so hard for them to end it.

I never figured that one out. I never figured out why, if someone was fed up with their life, it was so difficult for them to pull the razor harder and deeper over their wrist. Or work up the courage to jump off a building. Or actually pull the trigger of the gun pressed to their head. Or even inject the poison into their veins.

Of course I've tried.

I've put a gun to my head. A razor to my wrists. A knife in an electrical socket. Even poison in my veins. But I've always, subconsciously, knew that I wouldn't go through with it.

I put the gun down. Cut very shallowly. And made sure that someone knew that I was about to do something stupid.

I was always saved.

But why?

Again, why is it so hard for me to accept that which doesn't make sense?

Why would someone save me?

And why would I want to end it?

Why?


	2. The Beginning: The Foundation of a Story

Okay, so as the title of this chapter says, this is the foundation of the rest of the story. It will sound like rambling at first but I'm going to organize it better in future chapters. The things that are mentioned in this chapter are going to be explained more later on.

Thanks for the reviews so far. I'm shocked, to be honest.

I know this story is rough around the edges right now, I will fix it. :D

So, read and review some more.

(A/N: Yes I finally realized that PT Cruiser is not what I meant (I feel like a moron) But a Vista Cruiser.)

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The Beginning: The foundation of a Story (Reprise)

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"Don't think of it as something that will annoy you. Don't even think of it as a journal. Think of it as…well as a therapeutic technique. Sure it's like a journal, but no one will read it." House's therapist explained.

"So it's like a suicide note." House said leaning back against the leather cushion of the couch and took a drag from the Marlboro hanging between his fingers.

"Not like a suicide note. It's like a book. A story of the life of Gregory House." The therapist smiled.

House rolled his eyes, "Sure…a book."

"Look, if it's any easier, you can write it and I wont even read it."

"Then what's the point?" House asked flicking his ashes to the floor.

"There's an ash tray right there." The therapist pointed out.

"Yup. What is the point?"

"It will make you feel better."

"You don't know that…"

"Trust me. When you get your feelings out, it makes things a lot better."

House scoffed. He took a last drag and put the cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe, threw it beside the ashtray on purpose, and made a big show of leaving dramatically.

As he walked back to his (single) room, he actually thought about the first sentence he was going to put down.

---

JUNE 16, 2009

I wasn't always like this. I was forced.

Well, forced is not the right word.

It was more like destined. Yes, I was destined to become what I am today.

It's a long story to tell but I'm attempting to tell it.

---

My life started out June 11, 1959. I was born in Virginia, where my mom now lives.

It was in the suburbs of Lexington, Virginia. I was a home birth and my mom was a homemaker. My dad, a Marine, was in Japan the day that I was born. He had decided that he didn't want to travel with a family, that it would be easier to just leave out and come back. That all changed when he came home from Japan and realized that he missed my birth.

That was the first time he'd done something FOR me.

In 1964, the month of April, my sister was born. Angela Francis House. She was born on April 23, and was a victim of my stupid mishap the five years later.

1969, a day after Angela's birthday, is a day that I hate to remember but one that I will never forget. At ten years old, I was stubborn enough to ignore my fathers wishes. I stole the car keys from the key rack in the kitchen. My dad's two month old Vista Cruiser was the object that killed my sister. I was the murderer.

A freak accident, I wont defend myself any more than that.

---

But enough about that. My ninth birthday was the last time my father said that he loved me. He had handed me my first bike and he even smiled from time to time.

That was the last time he did something FOR me.

My tenth birthday was a dark day in the House house. I got nothing but a blank stare from my mother, who tried to fake a smile for me, and a hateful glare from my father, who didn't even bother to change his expression for me.

After the death of my sister I had learned not to trust anyone or anything. My mother, a wonderful, gorgeous woman, was turned to a withered mess of despair. My father, a respected, well educated and strong man, was turned into a hateful snake that could strike at any moment.

I had to watch where I was walking from then on, for landmines covered my household.

I wont lie. It hurt. My father's disdain and my mothers despair were a painful reminder that I was not the son they wanted. I was the mistake and the one that should have died that tragic day in April.

---

My name is Gregory House, and I'm probably best known as the rustic diagnostician from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

If you're reading this, it probably means I'm dead. I'm not about to write down all my feelings and emotions for someone to up and find them and use them against me. That's not how I roll, so to speak.

If you're reading this, it probably means you've met me and you know me very well. Why would anyone be interested in my life story?

And, if you're reading this, I'm surprised. Again, why would anyone be interested in my life story?

I started out, speaking about my birth, my sisters birth, my sisters death, and the death of the relationship between me and my parents.

It will not be a good story.

It will not be a love story.

And it certainly will not be a happy story.

---

I think it was the day I hit puberty. That was most likely the day that started my horrid reputation.

I hit a growth spurt, grew hair in the expected places, and had a complete turnaround attitude wise.

Sure I was mean and hurtful before, but at the age of twelve I was a rebellious nightmare.

I said 'no' to my dad's face and got backhanded for the first time.

I spit in his face once, and was literally punched in mine.

Every single time I talked back to him he would physically hurt me.

Anytime I was late for dinner, curfew, or anything else that was on his watch, I slept outside.

When I lied and was caught in a lie, I was given an ice bath.

And anytime I disrespected him in some other, not previously named way, I was punished however John House thought feasible.

Sometimes, though, I wonder who it was harder on. Him or me?

I can't change the fact that my dad hates me. It's something illogical, unimaginable, and practically unheard of in other households. Normal households.

Was I hated because I was rebellious? Or was I rebellious because I was hated?

That little hypothesis is known as a tautology. Something is what it is, because it is what it is.

TBC


End file.
